


it's quiet uptown

by mamalovesherbagels



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Sad, and bobby's children, mentions of Kevin, minor original character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27645511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mamalovesherbagels/pseuds/mamalovesherbagels
Summary: The team loses a young patient. It's particularly difficult for Bobby and Chimney.
Relationships: but chim and bobby friendship is what is most prominent, the 118 as a whole
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	it's quiet uptown

He tries too hard for too long, for far too long. The kid is gone and he’s probably just agonizing his parents with his continued efforts when the outcome has become so piercingly clear.

But it’s not Bobby who calls him off, it’s Hen.

His eyes connect with his captain’s once he’s given up, and he knows. Bobby knows, too. They both do, in different ways. There’s another little boy in the other room, still breathing but forever burdened by the loss of his brother.

He remembers Mr. and Mrs. Lee’s cries at the news of Kevin’s death, Bobby remembers the moment he found out Brook and Robert Jr. had been lost in the fire.

It’s too much, it’s all too much.

It’s too much for everyone, of course, none of their coworkers are every going to be unaffected by the loss of a child and hearing their parents wail. They’re all human, they all feel empathy. Hen and Eddie are parents themselves.

But he and Bobby have specific memories, specific nightmares to be called back into in their minds, the physical ache in their chests feeling as fresh and raw as it had been the days their worlds turned upside down. Chimney knows the anguished cries they’ve just heard, Bobby has let them out himself.

Bobby doesn’t even need to say a word, just exchange another look with him before he’s following him up the stairs, sitting down at the table when Bobby motions to a chair. There are tears in both of their eyes but neither of them is letting them fall. Maybe because they know they won’t stop falling, and they’re at work, or maybe because they feel bad because this recent loss isn’t even their own.

They don’t cry, they just want to.

Bobby is rummaging through a drawer and Chimney puts his head down on the table, soon feeling a hand on his shoulder that is probably Hen’s. She doesn’t speak, though, neither do Buck or Eddie who he assumes are also right behind them. They’re there, but they understand not to break the silence, to just be.

He hears something being set down on the table in front of him and he pulls his hand up.

A candle.

“I keep this here now because of when we couldn’t light your cake,” Bobby finally says, gesturing to the lighter in his hand.

Chimney only nods, having to up his efforts to keep the tears from falling. A second hand is on his other shoulder now, he wonders if it’s also Hen or if Eddie or Buck have stepped forward, but he can’t bring himself to look.

Bobby lights the candle.

Silence again. His hands are clasped and he’s looking up to the ceiling, and Chimney figures he’s probably praying. Chimney isn’t really religious himself, but he figures that he should join him in doing something, at the very least.

He pulls out his wallet, and puts a picture of him and Kevin down the table, finally letting himself cry. Hen’s arm wraps around him from behind, and through blurry eyes he can see Buck and Eddie walk over to both put an arm around Bobby, who’s now crying, too. He thinks they all are, actually.

It’s probably a pretty shitty memorial, considering they’re not in a church or at a graveyard, but it’s still on shift so it’s not like they could just leave.

It’ll have to do. He hopes Kevin would appreciate it, as do Bobby’s kids.

Sometimes it’s hard for him to believe that Bobby’s been through what he has, having watched Mr. and Mrs. Lee unimaginable, devastating grief up close and then seeing Bobby, positive and upbeat and encouraging.

He knows the pain isn’t gone, though, it could never go away,

Kevin’s passing will always sting-- and he was his brother, not his child.

The candle on the table won’t bring anyone back, not Kevin or Brook or Robert and the little boy they lost just twenty minutes ago, but remembrance is probably better than keeping it all buried.

It reminds him of a quote Hen had once sent to him on one particularly rough Mother’s Day.

“Some things in life cannot be fixed. They can only be carried.”


End file.
